The Baker and the Whore
by 123Quarters
Summary: Random moments with Finnick and Peeta. The real genre for this story is: idkwtfih, but that's not an option so I just put romance. Whore!Finnick, AngryConfused!Peeta.
1. Yellow Cat Red Cat

_**A/N: **_I don't know guys. I don't know.

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Baker and the Whore<em>**

_**Scene**: Begins in _Catching Fire_ when they enter the arena_

_"I watch my yellow cat  
>invade my red cat in the yard.<br>The feline war has raged for years  
>so I assume it'd be too hard<br>for me to drive my foot between them.  
>I would never risk the scratch<br>just to prove to one or both of them  
>a cat is just a cat.<em>_"_

_-Say Anything_

* * *

><p>Fuck me.<p>

Excuse my language, but _fuck me. _

Whoever came up with this arena was a jackass, and that's all there is to it- water everywhere, and maybe five tributes who can actually swim. I'm somehow not surprised when one of them is Katniss. She strikes out for the Cornucopia like it's nothing, lands on the beach and I'm thinking, "Hey, maybe everyone else will just drown, I can off myself, and then Katniss can win. Mission accomplished."

But then there's Finnick fucking Odair, gliding through the water like a Greek god, and- _great-_ now he's on the beach with Katniss and he's soaking wet and glistening like a fucking glazed donut fresh out the oven. There's barely any time for the awkward, poorly masked sexual tension that is everpresent around Finnick before Katniss is on the ground and Finnick is spearing the drunk guy from 5 with his trident. I should probably be helping somehow, but I wasn't a very good swimmer even before I lost my leg.

Next comes Enobaria, followed by Gloss, followed by Brutus andCashmere. It's turning into a shitstorm of epic proportions, and I'm still stranded on my little metal plate. Classic Peeta.

While I'm sulking, Katniss finally finds me and starts running. I really don't see how she plans on hauling my bulk to shore, but it should be interesting.

Well, no, I guess it won't- because here comes _Finnick fucking Odair_. He pats Katniss's stomach- which is weird until I remember that I faked her pregnancy. Then he dives into the water in a way that causes the sun to glint off of every single muscle on his body during the split second he is suspended in the air.

I'm so disgusted that I don't even bother to watch his progress as he swims towards me.

Within minutes, the bastard has dragged me into the water and has me pinned against him as he swims back to Katniss and the beach.

"Hello, little baker," he purrs, and I do my best not to react. Finnick loves making people uncomfortable. I'll be damned if I give in.

Apparently, he finds my strategy of ignoring him amusing because he chuckles at my stony silence. "What? No thanks for your handsome rescuer, my fair maiden?"

Pride be damned. "Fuck off, Odair." I try not to cough when I get a mouthful of saltwater.

He snorts, his breath hot in my ear, and says, "You seem so much nicer on television."

It's irritating how there's not even a hint of exertion in his voice, and how he doesn't seem to be inhaling nearly as much sea water as I am.

We hit sand and there's Katniss, pulling me up onto the beach. She's safe. I'm safe. We're okay. I kiss her because I really was worried the Gamemakers would off her within the first few second of entering the arena. When I pull away, Finnick is still crouched uncomfortably close to me. He has an innocent look plastered on his face, but there's no hiding the amusement in his green eyes.

I consider telling him to fuck off again, just because it really did make me feel better for a few seconds, then I remember Katniss and even though I'm sure she's heard worse, I don't feel right swearing around her. It's like Finnick can hear my internal monologue, because now he's grinning like an idiot.

When I try to stand up for Katniss, saying she wanted Mags from the first day of training, Finnick somehow manages to turn the phrase, "Katniss has remarkably good judgement," into an innuendo directed at me.

I swear I could kill Haymitch for giving Finnick that fucking bracelet and the rights to our cooperation. Goddamn drunk sonofa-

"Lead the way, baker boy," Finnick's voice cuts through my mental ripping on Haymitch, and I scowl but pull out the knife Katniss gave me and start hacking through the jungle. I imagine the vines having faces, alternating between Finnick, Haymitch, Snow, and Gale. It's oddly satisfying.

I think I don't have to worry about more of Finnick's fucking creepiness because he's carrying Mags. I'm wrong. When Katniss makes a quick detour to check for water, there's Finnick in my ear-

"Not a bad view from back here, dough boy."

Blood rushes to my face and everything gets intensely hot, but before I can react Katniss is back and I have to stamp down my frustration and hack away at the Finnick-vines with renewed pent-up rage.

We stop a bit after that and Katniss scurries up a tree to see the damage back at the Cornucopia. As soon as she's out of sight, Finnick is advancing on me like a fucking lion in heat. I sort of flail and panic, looking around for Mags. As if that will help- she's sitting by a tree, tying bows with long grass from the jungle floor and ignoring the whole mess in front of her. Finnick is close, and my panic turns into anger. Instead of shrinking away and avoiding him, I pull myself up to my full height, clench my jaw, and tense my muscles up as much as I can, trying to decide if I have enough power in me to actually knock him out.

He's so damn close, standing a few inches taller than me, using his broad shoulders to block any escape I might attempt. As if I'd try. I glare into his green eyes with all the venom I can manage from a life spent living with my bitch of a mother.

His mouth is inches from mine, the puff of his breath on my face barely distinguishable from the wet tropical breeze blowing through the jungle. I grit my teeth, and it makes an audible grating sound. Suddenly, he's laughing, hard. He collapses against me, his forehead resting on my shoulder. If my muscles tense anymore I might literally explode.

Between the hot gasps of laughter on my neck, he manages- "You're a brave little toaster. I think I quite like you."

The sound of Katniss descending the tree pulls him away, and by the time she's back on the ground Finnick is standing a few feet away from me, trident held loosely in front of his body.

"What's going on down there, Katniss?"

They have a tense exchange, but I'm having trouble focusing. I can still smell the salt-water breath on my skin and it's making me uncomfortable.

He's teasing her about being hopeful, about thinking things would be different. I scowl, forcing myself to pay attention.

"No one in this arena was a victor by chance," Finnick says calmly, eyes locked on Katniss. There's an uncomfortable pause during which both his and Katniss's eyes find and lock on me, and I just sort of blink at them, unsure of what the hell they're talking about. "Except maybe Peeta," he adds, and I know Katniss doesn't heart that weird, flirtatious undertone in his voice.

I wonder what she makes of what he said. Whatever he meant, she apparently agrees with him.

I'm still just confused as fuck, so I scowl some more and cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the painfully tense silence that follows during which Katniss and Finnick seem to be deciding whether or not to kill each other.

Like him or not, he'll keep her alive.

I put myself between the two, pointedly facing away from Finnick.

"How many are dead?" I ask Katniss in order to break the awkward and possibly deadly silence, trying and failing to ignore the feeling of Finnick's triumphant gaze burning through the back of my skull.

These Games can't end fast enough.


	2. I Used to Have a Heart

_**A/N: **_Takes place in _Catching Fire_. Just random Peeta/Finnick one-shots/drabbles. May redo the same scene several times with different scenarios.

;-; This is just what happens when I stay on tumblr until 4 am. I'm sorry. I don't know. I can't. What?

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Baker and the Whore<em>**

_**Scene**: After Peeta is shocked by the force field in _Catching Fire

_"All I want to do is be mended by you_  
><em>I don't want to be confused, I just want to find you<em>  
><em>All I want to kill is that which keeps me ill<em>  
><em>Underwhelmed and unfulfilled"<em>

_-Say Anything_

* * *

><p>The lips are all wrong. All sorts of wrong.<p>

Real or not, I've kissed Katniss at least a hundred times between the last round of Games, the Victory Tour, and the Quarter Quell. I know what her lips feel like. I know what her mouth tastes like.

This is not it.

I can't move, can't break through the fuzzy darkness to reach the surface and figure out what the _hell _is going on. Somehow my entire body is in pain while, simultaneously, I can't seem to feel my body at all.

It's frustrating and confusing and _who the fuck is latched onto my face?_

There's the strange feeling of air being forced into my lungs, like someone else is making me breathe. It's an uncomfortable sensation, so I struggle- or rather, I think really hard about struggling against it.

The lips are gone; in the midst of mental struggles, I realize I can feel my chest now, feel something pressing painfully hard and then letting up; repeat, repeat, repeat.

It hurts like all kinds of fuck, but it doesn't seem to be doing any real damage. All I can think is- _One of the other tributes really sucks at murder._

Warm pressure on my lips again. The mouth on mine is forceful, insistent as it breathes air into me. The pushing on my chest stops, only to be followed by my nose being pinched shut so hard that the only logical explanation is someone's trying to rip it off. The only reason I want to regain full consciousness is to see who the fuck is failing so spectacularly at killing me.

More warm, moist air passes into me. Chest rises and falls involuntarily. Lungs beginning to get the hang of what they're meant to be doing. Maybe they aren't trying to kill me. Maybe they're doing an equally painful and shitty job of trying to help me.

The lips are salty like the sea.

As my mind starts to put this together and feeling begins to seep back into the rest of my body, I feel Finnick Odair's tongue swipe across my own in one fast, bold flick. The wetness and heat of his tongue dragging through my mouth is completely foreign and uncalled for.

The shock of that is more than enough to rival and reverse whatever damage was done by the force field- consciousness slams into me and he's gone, shoved off to the side and replaced by a teary-eyed Katniss.

As touched as I am by her concern, glad that I've finally truly gotten myself back behind that iron wall she has up to keep everyone out, I can't help but notice and by unnerved by the sight of Finnick grinning smugly in the background.


	3. Alive with the Glory of Love

_**A/N: **_I still don't know guys. Why is my Peeta so angry? ; - ;

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><p><strong><em>The Baker and the Whore<em>**

_**Scene**: After Finnick revives Peeta, the group stops for a rest. Katniss goes hunting._

_"When I watch you, I wanna do you right where you're standing.  
>Right on the foyer, on this dark day, right in plain view<br>Of the whole ghetto. The boots stomp meadows, but we ignore that.  
>You're lovely, baby. This war is crazy. I won't let you down.<em>_"_

_-Say Anything_

* * *

><p>I'm getting pretty fucking tired of owing Finnick Odair.<p>

Between teaming up with Katniss, swimming my useless ass to shore, and giving me the kiss of life or whatever the hell that was, the odds are slowly stacking in his favor. Within a day I'll probably have to promise him my imaginary firstborn son or something just to put a dent in my lifedebt.

And it doesn't help that he's playing my "Katniss is pregnant" strategy better than she and I combined. That's bullshit, too. Excuse me, Mr. Perfect-Ass Odair, for being a bit too busy drowning and being electrocuted to remember my fake baby.

And here we are now- Katniss off hunting for water, Mags weaving grass huts or something, and Finnick watching me like a hawk from a few feet away.

No.

Not a hawk. Hawks are cool. Hawks just kill and eat things; they don't_visually fuck their prey's brains out._

It's making me restless: throw a nut against the force field, catch the rebound, peel it, place it on the leaf, look up at Odair, receive eye-sex. Repeat.

As I start cracking what must be nut number 500, I wonder how amused the rest of Panem is by Finnick's prickish behavior. Everyone in the Capitol is probably rolling in their fucking seats, creepy-ass bastards.

Another thought that enters my mind: what would Haymitch want me to do? Is it good to ignore Finnick, or should I indulge him? Would that somehow lead to sponsor's sending us food and water?

I finish peeling the nut and glance up at Finnick. He licks his lips predatorily and winks at me.

Food and water be damned. There's no way in hell "Finnick Odair's plaything" is going to be listed as one of my final accomplishments. My face easily fixes into a scowl- I don't think I've ever scowled in my whole life as much as I have during the past day in this fucking arena- and I go back to throwing nuts at the force field.

When I hear Finnick's trademark _oh, silly little baker _chuckle, I bite my tongue and do my best not to start throwing the nuts at his head.


	4. No Games

_**A/N: **_Thanks for your reviews! I know most of the people reading this probably didn't read my HP stuff, but the same thing applies: my chapters are going to end up at whatever length they end up at. I write in scenes. I'm not a really good author- I don't plan shit out. I just sit down at 4 am and puke this into Microsoft word or, more often, directly onto Tumblr. So I'm really sorry to everyone who asked for longer chapters:/ It just doesn't work when I try.

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><p><strong><em>The Baker and the Whore<em>**

_**Scene**: The tributes stop to rest for the night. Finnick takes the first watch._

_"The way you breathe, the way you bleed-  
>it brings out that something in me.<em>

_I wanna steal your heart and seek the world.  
>This prison ain't enough for me and my girl.<br>The serum shot into my veins explains  
>Exactly how you see me now, no games." - Say Anything<em>

* * *

><p>Believe it or not, it's pretty fucking hard to sleep while participating in the Hunger Games. Even after a day of nearly drowning, being electrocuted, being brought back to life, and dealing with Finnick fucking Odair, I barely manage an hour of pisspoor rest before I'm just laying stiff as a board on the ground and staring up at the roof of the grass hut Mags built earlier.<p>

Katniss is breathing slow and steady beside me- somehow she's out like a light. Mags is snoring quietly a few feet away. No real surprise there- half the time I feel like she doesn't even know we're in the arena. The real reason I can't manage to force myself back into a stupor is this: there's some strange sound that I can't quite place- oddly paced breathing from farther away but still too close for comfort. It sets me on edge, forces my muscles to tense painfully until I'm a lump of rigid nerves waiting on death to crawl out of the darkness.

Slowly, I start to pull myself into a sitting position. There are a thousand terrible things that could be making that sound- some sort of slow gas-leak death trap, any number of muttations slobbering for our blood, other tributes with asthma or some shit making their way towards our campsite, or even-

Even Finnick Odair, rocking back and forth like a child and quietly crying into his tightly crossed arms.

The chills that wracked my spine at the idea of facing more muttations instantly dissolves into a sort of weird, dull panic. I'm about as well-equipped to deal with a crying Finnick Odair as I am to deal with a nest of angry tracker jackers.

And we all saw how well that went the first time.

On the one hand, I am entirely convinced Finnick Odair is a jackass. On the other hand, who isn't a jackass, especially among the victors? And I owe him. Fuck me, but I really, really owe the bastard. And then there's this other thought, like poison in the back of my mind:

From some of the stories Haymitch told me while we were training in the Capitol, Finnick Odair has more than enough reason to be the fucking creepy nympho that he is.

Still- that doesn't mean I have to comfort him or anything.

Nope.

Doesn't mean that at all.

Or maybe it does, because less than five minutes later I'm somehow dragging my exhausted carcass over to his makeshift watch station, putting a hand on his shoulder and cursing my father for raising me to be a good person.

Finnick jumps when I touch him, his entire body convulsing and pulling away immediately. It looks pitiful, the way he shrinks in on himself. If the situation wasn't so far-removed from being humorous, it might be really funny to see someone with as much muscle as Finnick Odair curled into a little ball. At the moment, it's not funny at all.

That's strange, I think. Finnick Odair, who has done nothing but invade my personal space for the past twenty-four hours, is actually terrified of being touched without permission.

Haymitch's stories about old men and money changing hands and the spoils of war creep to the front of my mind again.

I decide that, no, never mind, it's not strange at all, and I feel a bit sick to my stomach.

I don't know what to say to this version of Finnick, don't even know where to begin, so I just look at him, the wet streaks down his face and his tousled hair sticking in every conceivable direction, my hand still hanging in midair awkwardly between us. He won't look at me directly, but his eyes rest on the hand extended towards him.

The sounds of Katniss and Mags sleeping a few feet away seem to grow louder in the silence between Finnick and me. I am more aware than ever that I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. Under the weight of every impossibly painful, soul-tearing experience I see reflected in the haunted sea green eyes before me, I feel like a child. A stupid, sheltered child.

Probably should have stayed asleep. Somehow.

It takes forever, but he reaches out and places his palm against mine, lacing his fingers through after another second. It reminds me of watching Katniss and Prim hold hands on the way to school when we were younger, even though I am intensely aware of how hot and sticky his skin is against my own and how strange that feels. Natural and real, but slightly wrong. His hand is larger than mine- his fingers thinner but longer. He has calluses like me, but his are on different parts of his hands- mainly the very center of his palm. I guess it's from years of hauling rope on ships. My own calluses are from layers and layers of burns, built up over years of working the ovens at home.

I resist the impulse to pull my hand away. As much as he bothers me, as much as I don't want to think about him, I actually know quite a bit about the boy from the sea, and as much as I don't want to give Finnick Odair the wrong idea, I also know that he wants me even less than I want him. I am Peeta Mellark, a baker's boy, a sponge for everyone else's pain. Finnick Odair is a Capitol whore, but, weirdly enough, just as much of a sponge as me. He just gets fucked physically as well as mentally.

I feel bad after thinking that, and something in the disapproving tilt of his lips makes me think he knows what's going through my mind.

Like him or not, Finnick Odair has been through a lot of shit. Like him or not, he's in pain. Like him or not, it's becoming impossible to _not._

I think that's why, when he falls forward and kisses me full on the mouth, I don't push him away. It's strange- how his mouth is all salt water and tidal waves and this strong give and take, crash and pull- but it's not unpleasant.

And at least for one fucking minute I'm not thinking about dying.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**_ Tralalala me and sort-of cliffhangers and PEETAFINNICK SEX. Just kidding.

Mostly.


	5. Ants in My Pants

_**A/N: **_Faster than a speeding bullet, it's this update. Sorry for the up in rating. Just to be safe.

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><p><strong><em>The Baker and the Whore<em>**

_**Scene**: Continued immediately after previous chapter_

_"Stress can breed a psychopath  
>You're all that calms me down<br>I forget that I'm a mess when you're around  
>Please can you be home tonight<br>Say its not over yet  
>My human tranquilizer<br>My pretty percocet_

_I've got ants in my pants unless its you in them instead_

_I need to hear you breathing on the line  
>And you can be closed minded<br>If you have open arms  
>Why can't I ever work my wily charms on you?" -Say Anything<em>

* * *

><p>It's wrong, what I'm doing to Peeta Mellark.<p>

But it's so, so, so beautifully fucked up- the way his breathing starts out so even when I press my lips against his, then slowly hitches and disintegrates into this non-pattern and I can't even figure out how he's getting enough air in his lungs. He's letting out these sweet-tasting baby animal gasps against my mouth, and oh this poor, poor kid-

Because I haven't even gotten started yet.

Back before Panem, back when everything was still "North America", I think they would have called what I'm doing a_ sin_. That's neither here nor there though, so I push it out of my mind, replace any guilt with that old sailor song:

_Here's to the whores of sailor town_

_The white, the black, the yellow and brown._

_Walk right in, lay your money down  
>And fuck the night away.<em>

It doesn't take much to push him onto his back, this sturdy baker's boy. If I let myself think much, I'd be surprised. I hadn't expected the crying to work so well, to make him so pliant. If I let myself think much, I would realize he's giving in because he's actually a decent person and he believes he's doing me a favor.

Oh, poor, poor Peeta Mellark. I'm going to tear him apart.

He's leaning up on his elbows, straining his neck to reach me, the precious little thing, and I'll give him credit for one thing- he may not have a fucking idea what he's doing but it's not stopping him from being good at doing it.

Peeta Mellark can be good all he wants. When it comes to this, I will always, always be better.

I pull one of his wrists gently, but it's enough to unbalance him and send him flat on his back. For one brief second, I allow myself the luxury of pulling away from him, really looking at the breathless mess of a boy beneath me. Even in the darkness, I can see the sheen of sweat covering his skin, causing his dirty blonde hair to curl and stick to his forehead. He's lovely and oh so innocent.

The dark, corrupted Capitol slave in me revels in the innocence mirrored in these hazy eyes, and in how beautifully simple it will be to maim and distort and _break._

My second is up. No more thinking, just go.

I've been carefully holding my weight off of him, but I let myself fall now. Chest to chest, belly button to belly button, pelvis to pelvis. Mouth to mouth.

The little baker squirms a bit, trying to put distance between us, but it's no good. I trap his tongue with mine, get him entirely focused on what I'm doing to his mouth, and then I let my hands begin to wander. Slowly, easy at first, so he won't notice. Trace the shell of his ear with my fingertips, run a line down his neck, thumb across his collar bones. He's got strong, broad shoulders, this naïve dough boy. A stark contrast to all the squishy, porcelain Capitol bodies I've gotten used to. I devour the difference with my fingers, start to use my palms when I reach his chest, and he's starting to notice.

Can't have him coming to his senses now.

Run my tongue down the hot, quivering line of his jugular. He's lost again, instantly, breathing erratic and –oh, he'll love this. I drag my lips down the sweat-slicked muscles of his neck, reach the hollow where neck meets shoulder, and I sink my teeth in lightly.

_Oh._

The sound he makes- this stifled shivery moan- is delicious, so I capture his lips again, smiling when he parts them willingly, and I search for that sound again, wanting to taste it this time. My hand travels down, down, down, reaches his thigh and I'm so surprised that I have to pull away and examine what I'm feeling. Where there should be soft muscle, there is hard metal. I had forgotten about the metal leg he'd been given after his Games. How interesting.

But that's for another time. I swoop down, catching him off guard when I kiss him this time, and I'm rewarded with a panicked squeak that I wouldn't have believed him capable of.

Hands, hands, hands. His hands pushing, pulling my hips, indecisive. My hands, tracing back up his thigh, across, and- squeeze.

Oh.

I can't help but laugh a little at how ridiculous this is- Peeta Mellark, this seventeen year old, this _child_, hot and hard beneath my hand.

Suddenly, he's not kissing me anymore, his strong hands and holding me away from him, his eyes clear and steely.

"It's not for you," he says, his eyes darting for the briefest second to the place a few feet away where Katniss Everdeen is sleeping soundly. It shocks me, the anger in his eyes. There's no hint of fear, no hint of reluctance. He is just a good, brave boy telling me for my own good.

I laugh again, right in his ear and a visible shiver runs through him. Without pause, I force my hips to his, grinding down hard and biting his earlobe simultaneously. He must be biting his tongue because the only sound I receive is a muffled groan.

"And this isn't for you," I tell him quietly, pressing against him harder, pushing him into the dirt, making sure he can feel it. And I'm not lying. It's not for him.

He is not Peeta Mellark.

He is Annie Cresta.

Innocent, sweet, forgiving, beautiful, _mine _Annie Cresta.

My little Annie.

And just like that I'm gone.

Lips and teeth and hands and get rid of this awful blue jumpsuit because I need his skin- her skin- Annie, Annie, my little Annie-

The only one who ever loved me, the only one I've never touched, but I can imagine-

Annie, Annie, would you shake and tremble like this blonde baker beneath me? He does not look so very much like you, little Annie, but oh, he is so like you in all the wrong ways. All innocence and naïveté and this notion of true love that he'll never say out loud, yet I know even I won't be able to squash it out of him.

But I'll try, Annie.

It's better for both of us if I try.

Hand trails down his belly, he's quivering like a leaf, shaking like a scared animal, breathing like an asthmatic, nothing sexy about that, but then again I'm still pulsing and straining and wanting to break him so maybe it is sexy after all.

Oh, Annie, I'm disintegrating. They always said you were mad, Annie Cresta, but they never knew what I was hiding when I fucked them all in their plush, shining Capitol beds.

Fucked them all, fucked them all, set up a rhythm, get Peeta Mellark in my hand, hot and sticky with sweat and sex, get my tongue in his mouth, suffocate him, fuck them all, fuck him, fuck him fuck him _fuck him_ until his hips are jerking-

Oh, Annie, I wish you could see this boy because he's beautiful, the way his muscles are all tensed and shining and the way he's gritting those healthy, grew-up-with-enough-food teeth. Maybe you can see, Annie. Are they playing this on television sets all over Panem? Are those bastards in the Capitol sitting in their air conditioned rooms, eating cream and sugar and touching themselves at the sight of me tearing Peeta Mellark to pieces? They should learn from this boy. They should watch. They should-

Everyone should see the way Peeta Mellark is convulsing, losing himself, biting into my shoulder like he's trying to tear the flesh from the bone, moaning into my skin, hot and wet and maybe I'm actually bleeding but it's almost-

A loud chime echoes across the arena, a booming, disorienting sound.

The haze clears from my mind immediately, I come back to myself, push Peeta Mellark down and crouch protectively over his shuddering body, searching the night for the threat. The sound repeats itself. It is from the sky. A Gamemaker's signal of some sort.

Katniss is stirring in her sleep, coming back to consciousness.

I meet Peeta Mellark's eyes, see the hollowness, the dull confusion and fear. Quick as I can, I put his jumpsuit back on in some semblance of order and press my fingers to his eyelids gently.

"You're asleep," I whisper.

His body goes limp at once, head lolling to the side, the perfect imitation of peaceful sleep. I drag myself away from him, and Katniss is beside me, looking groggy but alarmed.

I sit beside her as we listen to the chimes boom out over the arena, twelve times total.

When they are done, Peeta Mellark is snoring softly but a little too evenly and I am missing Annie Cresta more than ever.

* * *

><p><strong>Ta-dah.<strong>

_Sorry. My Finnick is a little cray-cray._


	6. A very urgent request

With the recent influx of FF fuckery, I'm only here until I can get an AO3 account-

But I'd just like anyone still interested to know- **yes**, I am continuing this story. I'm working on a complete overhaul at the moment and _I could really use a decent beta/partner in crime who is very invested in Finnick Odair_ (because the story is much more about Finnick than about Finnick/Peeta or Peeta), and it would also be nice if you had a tumblr because that's the easiest way to communicate about fandom related blahblah.

Anyway, thanks for sticking with me and leaving reviews and all the sweet and lovely inbox messages!

Leave beta offers in my inbox, a review on this temporary chapter, or as a message to gwenstacysyndrome on tumblr!

I love you guys and sorry for the year-long absence!

* * *

><p>An Addendum:<p>

I am also open to someone very invested in Peeta, because I'm sort of considering doing a back and forth chapter-POV-switch off.

Like a very long/planned out RP.

Idk, guys, idk. I'm just back from a very strange year and ready to jump into something awesome.


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